


Never Mind I'll Find Someone Like You

by Pyjamagurl



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Season 2 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-09
Updated: 2012-07-09
Packaged: 2017-11-09 12:29:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyjamagurl/pseuds/Pyjamagurl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia wakes with a start. Her hair is stuck to her forehead, and she's tangled in her sheets, her breath coming too hard and fast. </p>
<p>In which Lydia dreams of the Hale House fire but doesn't realise it, and finds comfort in someone she didn't expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Mind I'll Find Someone Like You

**Author's Note:**

> I really rather like the idea of Lydia's mysterious dark haired and blue eyed creeper being a young Peter Hale that only she can see, so here is some fic for it before that idea gets jossed ;) 
> 
> Written for the hurt/comfort Bingo on LiveJournal for the 'nightmare' square.

It starts with the smell of burning. Smoke heavy in the air, tickling at her throat, singing nasal hairs, and making her eyes water. She coughs, throwing back the covers and lurching out of bed. 

The world tilts before her, she reaches out a hand but there’s nothing to hold onto, nothing familiar in the darkness. She can barely see two feet in front of her. The air is thick, the smoke suffocating. There’s screaming coming from somewhere deeper in the house, horrible screaming that’s nothing at all like the screams you hear in movies or on TV. It sends a shiver up her spine. 

The door handle is hot when she pulls it, wrenching back her hand. She looks down and that’s when she realises they are not her hands. They are bigger, wider, with longer fingers and short untidy nails. Male hands. 

Lydia Martin is not herself any more. Her new body runs through the house, following the direction of the screams, the layout both familiar and unfamiliar at once. The smoke gets thicker, clogging her lungs and there’s fire licking up the walls, eating the furniture, destroying the home they had built around them. 

There’s crying somewhere, high pitched wails that sound so inhuman that Lydia wants to recoil from them but can’t. Half the staircase tumbles to the ground in flames and she’s trapped, trapped with the dying bodies of a family she doesn’t know but feels the gut wrenching pain of loss for anyway. 

It takes her too long to realise she’s burning too. Skin is bubbling, unimaginable pain flaring right down to her bones, white-hot, the pain is excruciating, she can feel her muscles contracting and she can’t move. She can’t do anything. She can barely even breathe.

* * *

Lydia wakes with a start. Her hair is stuck to her forehead and she’s tangled in her sheets, her breath coming too hard and fast. She wants to cry. She wants to be _sick_. 

‘Hey… hey, you’re okay,’ says a familiar voice. She moves to cover her face with her sheets, but a hand stops her. The hand is familiar too, free from scarring now though. It swipes the hair away from her brow, fingers soft. 

She looks over, up into blue eyes and she wonders why she’s not freaking out right now. When did this become her norm? 

‘I was just a nightmare,’ the boy says. 

‘Felt real,’ she says, it comes out muffled as she rolls into the warmth and safety of the boy’s arms. She’s not sure why she considers him to be safe, two days ago he was freaking her the hell out. The boy with the dark hair, and the blue eyes, and way too much confidence regarding her, and personal space. She wonders how she never noticed him before.

‘You’ll be okay,’ he tells her, mouth pressed against her hair. She buries her nose in his chest. The smell surprises her; woodsy, with an underlying hint of smoke and the slightly bitter tinge that follows monkshood. She doesn’t pull away though, tucks her face into his chest and pinches her eyes shut, trying to ignore the afterimages of the nightmare. 

‘There was a fire,’ Lydia tells him, she has no idea why she dreamed of a fire.

‘That was a long time ago,’ he replies. ‘The beginning…’

‘Beginning of what?’

‘I—I can’t tell you,’ he says. Lydia looks up at him but he has his face turned away, and she bites back annoyance; she feels like she is constantly being kept in dark these days. ‘You have to figure it out for yourself.’ 

‘What’s your name…?’ she asks, already sinking back into sleep. 

There’s a long pause, it feels like forever and she considers that she’s not likely to get an answer for that either. People don’t seem to like answering her questions lately, not the ones she actually wants the answers to. 

‘Peter,’ he says, and Lydia almost misses it to the pull of sleep. ‘My name is Peter.’

* * *

When Lydia wakes up the next morning the nightmare is forgotten and so is the boy, but there’s a purple flower on her pillow and the name Peter stuck in her head. At least she didn’t punch a mirror and forget about it this time. She picks up the flower, tucks it into her classics textbook alongside the other one she was given just nights before, and then turns on her heel to head to the bathroom to get ready for the day.

And if she’s thinking about a boy with blue eyes and dark hair, and calling him Peter in her head, then that’s just between her and a forgotten dream. 

She wonders if she’s going to see him at school today. Her heart beats a little bit faster at the thought.


End file.
